The Writing Desk

by Rachel Hauck

  “Sorry.”

  “Forget it. I really can’t blame you or them. Only myself.” Tenley sighed, glancing at the photo. “Thanks for this, Blanche.”

  She smiled softly. “You’re welcome.”

  “I’d better get back to work. Jonas is coming tonight with pizza and some DVDs. The Bob Newhart Show.”

  “Really? I loved that sitcom.”

  “Good. I’ll meet you in the living room around seven. He’s taking the desk too. Might as well. It’s not helping me, and he wants it.”

  “Oh, Tenley, are you sure? You were so hopeful about it.”

  She scoffed. “Goes to show what I know. How can wood and varnish inspire a real novelist?”

  Turning to leave, Tenley caught the edge of a thick gilded frame under a scattering of photos. She pulled it free, finding a regal-looking couple by a car on the beach, dressed in what would have been Sunday best in the forties. “Who’s this?”

  Blanche leaned to see. “Oh, that’s the Marquess and Marchioness of Ainsworth. I’d forgotten I had that picture.”

  “So they really did live here?”

  “Of course. Did you think I made it up?”

  Tenley made a face, shrugging. Maybe. “Cocoa Beach in the forties had to be the exact opposite of aristocratic life in England.” Especially landed gentry. Tenley flipped over the photo, looking for a date. Sure enough, 1947.

  “She was a Gilded Age heiress. Her father owned land here and they built the house in the early ’30s, spending winters here. They moved permanently right before the war, I think.”

  Tenley studied the image. The marchioness was beautiful, classic, in the way one expected of heiresses and aristocrats.

  Yet she had a rebel air about her and wore an “I dare you” expression. The marquess was the definition of dashing, his hat pushed back on his head, a sporty grin on his lips, one hand tucked into his suit pocket and the other around his wife.

  “They were in love,” Tenley whispered.

  “What?” Blanche said, lost in examining photos of her own.

  “Nothing.” Then, “Do you believe in true love, Blanche?”

  She looked up, regarding Tenley for a moment. “Seriously? You’re asking a woman who had four husbands.”

  “Well, do you?”

  “Yes. But I think for some people it never happens.”

  “That’s depressing. I-I mean if there’s no such thing as true love, what’s the point in life?” Tenley said, eyes fixed on the picture of the marchioness and marquess. “C-can I have this?”

  “Like I said, take what you want. All of this is yours when I die anyway.”

  “You’re not dying.”

  “Well, not today but someday.”

  “You don’t have to leave it all to me, Blanche. How about your sister or her kids?”

  Blanche’s eyes shimmered when she looked up. “Because it all belongs to you. You’re my heiress.” She flashed a watery smile. “Now, see . . . you made my eyes water.”

  Tenley patted her arm. “Stop or you’ll make my eyes water.” She reached for the tin. “What’s this?”

  “An empty reel-to-reel tin. There used to be one of Reese and me as girls, but I don’t know what happened to it or the projector. Roger was fascinated with it, so he might have hauled it off.”

  “Too bad.”

  Blanche handed Tenley another photo. “Your dad and me on our wedding day. Look at me with my big hair and Princess Di puffy sleeves.”

  It was strange seeing the two of them together, smiling, happy. Tenley added the photo to the collection in her hand. “Dad never said a bad word about you. Ever.”

  Blanche organized the photos. The small ones together, the large . . . “Thank you for that . . . though I gave him plenty of ammunition. You asked about regrets. One thing I don’t regret is you.”

  “You had a funny way of showing it.”

  “I suppose I did.”

  Tenley held up the pictures, finding no response to Blanche’s honest answer. “Thanks for these. But I’d better get back to the grind.” She started out of the room, then hesitated. “See you at seven for Jonas, pizza, and Newhart?”

  “See you at seven.”

  Back in the library, Tenley set the photos on the edge of the desk, studying the images behind the glass, feeling oddly connected to the people of the past, and feeling oddly connected to the woman downstairs.

  NINETEEN

  BIRDIE

  The evening passed with great pains as the giant hall clock bonged eleven, then midnight, when Papa retired, and finally one. Mama, the ever-vigilant chaperone, dozed in her chair by the fire.

  Birdie rubbed her hand along the back of her neck as Alfonse gathered the cards from the last round of two-handed bridge.

  “Good night, Alfonse.” She stood, reinforcing her intention.

  “Good night?” He retrieved his pocket watch, checking the time as if he’d not heard the solitary chime. “The night is young. Were we at a ball, we’d just be sitting down to dessert.”

  “Let’s save our energy for the Gottlieb ball tomorrow night.” Birdie motioned to her mama. “I should send her to bed. Her maid must be weary with waiting.”

  “You made your case.” Alfonse shoved his chair under the table. “But I shall miss your company.”

  He’d been trying the past week and a half to be more attentive. More charming. But his compliments were hollow, falling short of the mark.

  Taking her hand, he walked to the grand hall, where a footman waited. “Bring Mr. Van Cliff’s coat and hat, please.”

  “Are we going to decide soon?”

  “Decide?” She pulled free, resting her hand on the curve of the banister, wishing the footman would hurry with Alfonse’s things. “We know what we’re wearing to the Gottlieb costume ball.”

  “Yes, of course. There, at last, my coat and hat.” Alfonse slipped his arms into the sleeves as the footman held up his coat. “I’m going as a European prince. And you—”

  “Joan of Arc. It’s all settled. Let’s not bring it up again.”

  “Why you want to go as a martyr is beyond me.”

  “She was courageous. Stood her ground. Remained true to her beliefs.”

  “Then I shall be the prince who saves you from the stake.” Alfonse leaned toward her, brow arched, fingers catching her chin. “Your father would like to make the announcement before the end of the season. We’ve only a few weeks left.”

  “What announcement would that be?”

  “Don’t be coy. Of our nuptials.”

  “What nuptials?”

  He whirled away from her, muttering a low expletive. “What do you want from me?”

  “What do you want from me?”

  “You know full well—”

  “As do you.”

  His cheeks brightened as he jerked his leather gloves over his large hands. “Then I shall say good night.”

  When the door clicked closed behind him, she pressed her fingers to her lips, muting her laugh.

  “Why do you torture him?” Mama came from the shadows.

  “Eavesdropping, Mama?”

  “He fears your rejection.” She joined Birdie by the staircase. “You know what he wants. Just answer him.”

  “Answer him? He’s never asked me a question. Yet he constantly speaks of marriage as if the deal is complete. While it may be in his mind, it is not in mine. Since everything has been decided for me, can’t I at least have a question to which I can say yes or no?”

  “I think that’s his fear. You’ll say no.”

  “Surely not. He’s a Van Cliff. The halls of Clifton are loaded with portraits of Van Cliff men strutting and posing like wild stallions. A possible no from a girl he doesn’t truly love should not cower him.”

  “You do paint a picture with your words.” Mama yawned and patted Birdie’s shoulder. “But don’t be coy. Give him your yes, and love will follow. Either way, you and I sail to Paris the end of March for your trousseau.”
>
  They climbed the stairs in silence. Birdie had wished to sneak away to her attic tonight to write or read. Scribner’s Sons had published the latest Henry James book, The Wings of the Dove. But the evening passed with cards and conversation.

  “Mama?” She paused by her bedroom door. It was in these rare and wee, weary moments she could speak her heart to her mother. “What if I refuse him?”

  “Birdie, please, it’s late. Don’t pretend. You are marrying him.” Mama continued toward her room. “Now go to bed. Get some sleep. Don’t read.”

  “Did you marry for love?” The question came from a deep wondering in her heart. Birdie had wanted to ask since she was a girl but never found the courage. “Or did you marry Papa for position and money?”

  Mama stood at her bedroom door, her back to Birdie. “Why ask such a thing? If I had not married your papa, I would not have had William, my beloved son, may he rest in peace, nor you. Now good night.”

  “I want to know. Did you marry for love?”

  Mama twisted the knob on her door and slipped inside. “Good night, Birdie.”

  In her bedroom, Birdie leaned against the door, clutching her hands to her chest. Love. Wasn’t anyone willing to speak of love and marriage? What exactly was love?

  The subject of sermons? Of the Christ on the cross?

  Or the emotions that moved poets and writers?

  Was it the sometimes distant, sometimes formal exchange between Papa and Mama?

  Perhaps a stolen kiss? Or a surrender to illicit passion?

  Could love bloom in a marriage arranged between families?

  Or was love a choice? Did her feelings for Eli speak of love or girlhood infatuation? Could she just choose Alfonse and love him?

  Her maid knocked on the door and Birdie stood aside to let her in. “Are you all right, miss?”

  “What do you know of love, Fatine?”

  “I’m only seventeen, miss. I don’t know much, I’m afraid.”

  “Certainly. Well, neither do I.”

  ELIJAH

  The hearth fire blazed, filling the leather-accented drawing room of the Manhattan club with warmth. The low glowing lights and the sound of men’s voices were far from Elijah as he sat with Franz Gottlieb’s lawyer and the one Father had retained to represent the House of Ainsworth. A Mr. Len Pile, who’d relocated to New York in the ’90s.

  “Everything seems in order.” Pile reviewed the final draft of the financial settlement between the Gottliebs and the Percys. “Very generous of you, Mr. Gottlieb.”

  “Nothing but the best for our Rose. She’s aptly named. As fine a woman as the flower, but mind you, Montague, she’s not without her thorns.”

  Eli chuckled over his rising nerves. “Then I shall take heed.” The moment of truth. Once the documents were final, he must keep true. He could not change his mind. It would be scandalous.

  “With this agreement, you’re locked in, Lord Montague.” Gottlieb’s lawyer, Mack Van Buren, reached for the gold fountain pen resting in the well in the center of the table. “Best learn to deal with the rose as well as the thorns. Shall we sign?”

  Pile sat forward. “To be clear, the transfer of funds and the stocks will take time. We’ll confirm when they are complete.”

  “We’ll begin first thing in the morning.” Gottlieb sat back, crossed his legs, and motioned for a porter to light his cigar. “By the time you and Rose sale for York, matters will have concluded.”

  This morning, passage had been booked for Elijah and the Gottliebs to sail to England at the end of March.

  They’d spend time at Hapsworth before taking on the London season, introducing Rose to Eli’s peers and society. Then Rose and her mother would travel to Worth’s and arrange her trousseau. In November, they would marry in New York.

  “I’ve no doubt of your sincerity and integrity.” Eli reached for the pen, sensing Gottlieb’s delight at granting his daughter the finest of everything. Somehow, Eli must fit into the picture, prove himself worthy.

  Hearts and futures were on the line. Expressly his and Rose’s.

  Since the Valentine’s Day ball at the Delafields’, he’d mused over the image of Rose clinging to Birdie as they left the photographer’s parlor, her eyes brimming for no apparent reason.

  He inquired of her but she assured him all was well, then went on about how she and her mother were planning a trip to Worth’s and sampling wedding cakes.

  Yet, the other evening at the Gottliebs’, he saw Rose sneak into a water closet during a break from the dinner party. He could’ve sworn he heard muffled weeping.

  “Lord Montague, your glass.” Pile nudged him, motioning to the glass of brandy the porter set in front of him.

  “To Rose and Elijah,” Van Buren said, standing.

  Eli struggled to his feet, leaning on his cane, joining his future father-in-law and their lawyers. “To us,” he said, tossing back his drink, the burn of the alcohol numbing his anxieties.

  Soldier on, mate. Fulfill your duty.

  News had arrived in England of their engagement, and the king and queen sent congratulations to Hapsworth.

  “Montague.” Gottlieb leaned in for a private conversation. “You’ll find Rose up to the task.”

  “Of course.” Eli offered a reassuring smile. “I’ve no doubt.”

  “I sense your wariness but she’s strong and capable, well-educated, and as fine a beauty as you’ll ever see.”

  “You’re proud of her.”

  “She’s my heartbeat.”

  “I’ll do my best to be worthy of her.” Elijah set his glass on the table, his knee aching as it often did in the evenings. “But life on a country estate is quite different from life in New York. The winter months are long and dreary. I’m still engaged in Her Majesty’s service as a captain with the fusiliers and will travel from time to time.”

  “Rose is resourceful.” Gottlieb brightened as he spoke of his daughter. “She knows the value of hard work. I made sure of it.”

  “What of being an ocean away from her friends and family?”

  “She’ll make new friends. She’s always been keen with people, able to find the good in everyone. You’ve seen how lively she is at parties, the center of attention.” Mr. Gottlieb arched his brow. “All we ask is that you let her and the children return home for the season every few years. We shall visit, of course.”

  “I insist you do.” Eli sat back, waiting for the peace that came when one bypassed one’s mind and trusted in the will of the Divine.

  Gottlieb recognized a man who’d just entered the room and excused himself.

  Van Buren watched Eli through curling cigar smoke. Approximately his father’s age, the society lawyer was a dashing chap with a certain savoir faire.

  “I envy you,” he said after a moment. “You’re young, handsome, privileged, and about to marry a wealthy, beautiful young woman.”

  “Did you miss your turn at the altar, Van Buren?”

  Van Buren smirked, tugging at his bow tie. “More like I escaped.”

  “Certainly there was a fair maid who captured your heart.”

  “What makes you say so?” Van Buren motioned for the porter to bring another brandy. “Perhaps many a fair maid has captured my heart.”

  “I may not have your years and experience, but I’m quite certain there is always one young lady to steal—and perhaps break—a young man’s heart along the course of his life.”

  Van Buren exhaled a line of smoke and sobered. “She was obligated to another.”

  “Love . . . a complicated business, is it not?”

  “Especially when families and money, and titles, are at stake.”

  Van Buren retreated into silence, and Eli was grateful. He needed to be alone with his thoughts, pondering the deed that was done today.

  Unwittingly, his thoughts drifted to Birdie. Was she happy with Alfonse? No announcement had come from the Shehorn household of their nuptials. Was there anything he could do for her before their path
s parted?

  “Van Buren.” Eli leaned forward, waving off the swirling smoke. “What if you suspected a theft but had no real proof?”

  “Then you’d have no real case. Why? What’s been stolen?”

  “I’ve reason to believe an unpublished manuscript.”

  “Who would want to steal an unpublished manuscript? Was it from someone famous? Mark Twain? Jack London?” Van Buren tapped ashes from his cigar.

  “No, nothing so esteemed. This manuscript belonged to a friend. It’s quite possible it was merely mislaid.”

  “I’m intrigued. What makes him think his manuscript might be stolen?”

  Eli angled a bit closer, lowering his voice. “A publisher is producing a book very similar to my friend’s title and story.”

  Van Buren arched his brow. “Which publisher?”

  “Barclay.”

  Van Buren laughed. “One of the prize publishers in the city with a stellar reputation? Does your friend take opiates?”

  “No, of course not. It’s just my friend submitted his manuscript to Barclay and has never seen it again. Though there is a receipt showing the publisher hired a courier to return it. But the package seems never to have arrived.”

  “Without proof, you’d be laughed out of the publisher’s office. No judge would waste his time. Besides, if your friend intends to keep writing, suing a publisher would be literary suicide.” Van Buren stood, acknowledging someone else in the room, his interest in the conversation waning.

  “So the thief wins?” Eli said.

  “My dear man,” Van Buren said as he stepped away. “A good thief always wins.”

  So that was it. Birdie lost her manuscript. So then she must keep writing and trying. He motioned for a porter, and when he arrived Eli asked for pen and paper. He’d write to Birdie to encourage her. Remind her of the call for stories he’d found in the paper.

  He signed the note Your friend, Eli, then addressed the envelope. Soon he’d sail home with Rose and everything would change.

  He’d no longer be privileged to inquire of Birdie’s life and dreams. She’d belong to another, as would he.

  “Take care, Lord Montague.”

  He glanced into the concerned expression of Stow Van Cliff, a pipe on the edge of his lips, a glass of brandy in hand.